As soon as they were far enough away from the guards that they were out of earshot, Armand turned to her and said, “You wanted them to live.”
She stared.
“The crowd,” he said. “You didn’t want them shot.”
“Obviously,” said Rachelle. “Listen. About Joyeuse—”
“I didn’t send anyone to attack you.” There was no anger in Armand’s voice, just quiet intensity. “I swear to you. I arranged the letters to distract you and d’Anjou, but we were all supposed to avoid you two. Some of them must have wanted revenge, and I’m sorry about that. But—”
“I don’t care,” said Rachelle.
She did care. She believed him, too, which was surprising. But there were more important things right now.
“Joyeuse,” she said. “You have to tell me where it is.”
Armand let out a breath and then squared his shoulders, looking her in the eyes. “Rachelle,” he said, “please. You don’t have to keep following him. I know you think it’s too late, that you don’t have a choice anymore, but you do. You can change. You can stop Endless Night. If you help me. Please.”
She knew she was gaping at him. She couldn’t help herself. It was like the first time she had been punched in the face while sparring, and the world was bright and ringing and she couldn’t move.
“You want me to stop Endless Night,” she finally managed to stay.
“Yes,” said Armand. “I want you to stop it. And I think you will.” His mouth curved up. “The girl I fell in love with would have given anything to stop the Devourer. And even though you were working for d’Anjou—I don’t believe that girl was a lie. I think that’s who you really want to be, deep down.”
“You believe in the Devourer,” said Rachelle, still dazed. She’d gotten so used to thinking no one else would ever believe her.
“Well,” said Armand, “obviously.” He held up the stump of his right arm.
“I don’t think you told me everything about how you lost your hands,” said Rachelle, and it was a little satisfying to see his expression sliding into puzzlement.
“Let me go first,” she said. “I have wanted to kill the Devourer since I was twelve years old. That’s why I talked to a forestborn in the woods. After he marked me, he said that only Joyeuse or Durendal could kill the Devourer. That’s why I was looking for Prince Hugo’s door, because what you said—”
“Above the sun, below the moon,” Armand whispered. He looked exactly as dazed by this conversation as she was.
“I’d heard a story that Joyeuse was hidden behind a door like that. I’m not working for the Devourer. I’m not working for the forestborn. I am working for the King, but only because I want to stay alive, and I’m not planning to be alive much longer, because I met the forestborn who made me three weeks ago, and he told me that the Devourer was coming back before summer’s end. So you have to tell me where you hid Joyeuse.”
Armand stared at her a moment longer. Then he started laughing.
“What?” she demanded.
“Well,” he said, “if you want to kill the Devourer, you’re in luck. I’m going to be his new vessel.”
And she remembered the stories: Tyr, and a thousand nameless sacrifices before him. Humans hollowed out and inhabited by the power of the Devourer, made the living link that allowed him to shroud all the world in the darkness of the forest.
“Six months ago, my mother took me to court for the first time. It was dazzling. It was especially dazzling to meet my father, who seemed much more interested in me than I had ever expected. He told me that he expected great things of me.
“Three days before Midwinter Night, a forestborn marked me. He said I had to kill or die. I said I would die. I meant to die. Only—I told you already, how the Royal Gift saved me. On the third day, I woke up in a secret room. The King was there, and d’Anjou, and the rest of the forestborn. They told me I was destined for a fate more glorious than any mortal had enjoyed in three thousand years. I’d passed the test, you see. Because I had the Royal Gift strongly enough to survive the mark, I could be a fitting vessel for the Devourer. I could break the binding Tyr and Zisa laid upon him long ago.”
Rachelle hardly listened to that last part. “Erec was there?” she said. “Then he . . .”
Armand’s mouth twisted. “Oh, yes. He’s the one who cut off my hands.”
He couldn’t, she wanted to protest. It didn’t seem possible, and not just because they had been lovers. They had hunted and laughed together. He had held her once when she cried. He had taught her to live again when she had been ready to die.
But she remembered everything he had said to her: We’re both murderers. What never dies cannot be damned. We are going to live forever, in darkness and in dancing. She remembered his relentless drive to win. She remembered his brother.